907
by dracodaiir
Summary: Down in the darkest parts of Azkaban, in cell block 12, where all hope is lost, the notorious prisoner #907 arrives. Only his case is as mysterious as it is notorious, for many things don't seem to fit. But when the line between true and false gets blurred, would anyone bother to solve the puzzle?
1. Prologue

**A/N**: Not quite sure what to say, actually. Writing is not easy, and it's been long. Please don't be too hard on me. I'm trying. Please give me a chance :)

**Disclaimer**: Most unfortunately, I do not own Harry Potter, nor anything recognisable from the books/films. No profit is made from this fic. I write for fun.

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_There is nothing we like to communicate with others more than the seal of secrecy, together with what lies under it.—Friedrich Nietschze._

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_She_'d never been quite sure as to why she'd chosen this particular profession, when there were so many other options open to her. But she'd wanted a challenge, and as much as people told her to do something with that brain of hers, that hadn't really felt like one; or, in any case, not the one she'd been looking for. Besides, after all that had happened, in a way this only felt right.

_He_ was dark. He was vicious. He was feared, awed, and hated, and very much out of bounds.

_Cell block 12 _was notorious, even within the walls of Azkaban itself. It was said that the cells' occupants had haunted faces, and made sounds that were inhuman and unbearable to hear. It was also said that they were dangerous, and that their ghosts would come back to haunt the place forever.

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**Prologue**

It was a cloudy Monday that seemed to be promising nothing special for the entire rest of the week. It was those days that made her wonder what on earth she was doing here. Surely there had to be something more exciting out there to fill her days with?

Usually she would rationalise with herself that every job had less likeable tasks, and even a part of her had chosen this over being an Auror _because_ it involved less action. She'd thought herself to have seen enough action for a lifetime, too much for one person to take; yet when the obvious war had finally been over, there had been a lot of cleaning up to do—that was, rebuilding every place destroyed; chasing after the Death Eaters that had still been on the run; and all the while taking care of the dead, remembering them, giving them proper burials, mourning them. It had probably been tougher than the war itself.

And yet she had literally went for condemnation, in a way. The job had been done, the Wizarding World had been rebuilt as much as could have been managed in the time they'd been given, and while her two best friends stayed where they were, content (happy, almost) with the idea of an action-filled life, she'd quit without any idea of whatever she wanted to do.

It had struck her then. She wanted to see things from a different perspective.

Cell block 12 was notorious, even within the walls of Azkaban itself, yet not in a way that was realistic in the slightest. It was said that the cells' occupants had haunted faces (which was true, mind you), and made sounds that were inhuman and unbearable to hear. It was also said that they were dangerous, and that their ghosts, in a way she'd always thought only Muggles believed in them, came back and haunted the place forever, as a vicious cycle. It was described best like a Muggle haunted house in a horror movie, and as hesitant as it had left her at first, she soon came to realise that this was not one.

Most of them weren't dangerous, and most of them did not make a sound. They were resigned, and she always wondered whether they were quietly accepting what was coming on them. In a way, she couldn't imagine this, and honestly: she'd tried. She'd imagined losing her life often in her life, and then realised someone could come to terms with that even in a situation like this, when every second of the day made one think of it, instead of their head being elsewhere yet the possibility drumming in the back of it, like it had with her. But this was different. This wasn't just a life that was lost; it was a _soul_.

She still shuddered at the thought of it. The quiet resignation of the bigger part of the prisoners—_that_ was what made it all seem surreal, and somewhat horror-like.

Bending over her paperwork, which momentarily meant sorting out a case of one of the many newcomers, she was suddenly startled by her co-worker storming in, seemingly shocked. "He's coming down!"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Something wrong, Carter?"

"907!" His tone was a mixture of excitement, awe, and fear. She wondered why. What was so special about prisoner (or at least she suspected him to be talking about a prisoner) 907? What was James Carter so nervous about? The worst had been long gone, hadn't they—Bellatrix and Yaxley and Dolohov, and all of Voldemort's other closest followers—they'd been the first to have their souls eliminated, reduced to useless shells who could barely keep themselves from drooling. It was a vision that sparked both disgust and satisfaction in her, and she wasn't sure which one she found more disturbing.

"What about him?" Her voice sounded bored, she realised.

Carter was now looking quite uncomfortable, lowering his voice and whispering, "Aren't you—you know… I know you're not scared easily and all that but aren't you at least a bit intrigued?"

She stared at him. Blinked. The wheels in her head were working top speed. Nothing. She couldn't remember ever hearing the number before, let alone why one should be—scared, intrigued, awed?—by hearing it. She closed her eyes and sighed, ready to drop her head in her arms. She didn't feel up to listening to the big stories today; to be quite honest, she'd had a busy weekend, and she was dead tired. Besides, she had honestly no idea what her co-worker was talking about.

"But everyone knows of prisoner #907!" He exclaimed when she told him so.

"Well, not with me then."

That was the exact invitation Carter needed to start telling, in a way one would narrate a horror story. "It is said that he is the most notorious who has been here so far," he started off, his voice low. "No one really knows about his life, or his crimes, but he's the darkest prisoner to walk the halls. #907 _lives_ in the darkness," Carter whispered. "Apparently he cannot stand the light."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of the story so far. "And who is he?"

"Ah, but that is the point, isn't it? _No one knows._"

"Then how do they know he belongs here? When no one knows who he is, or what his life has been, or what his crimes were! What if he's innocent?"

Carter let out a dark laugh. "Granger, you'll see for yourself. No one even dares to look at him. _He's evil._"

Of course, for someone who always wanted to know everything, this made Hermione wonder, her fingers itching to start taking notes and investigate. "You say he's coming down here?" she asked, her brain scanning over her options. "But then where's his file?" She was fairly sure she hadn't seen a file with that number on it yet.

"I'm not sure. They should send it down to our level before this Friday, I believe."

Files usually came before the prisoners, not afterwards. Of course they did; how else were they supposed to know what they would have to put up with? This man was proving a mystery before she'd even caught so much as a glimpse of him. They couldn't hold someone of whom they held no information whatsoever—meaning there was a reason that said information was held back.

She groaned, wishing Carter hadn't started about it, for now it would be hard to concentrate on the huge amount of paperwork that was still waiting for her today. But then, it was almost noon, and she could just take her lunch break first. She took her purse, checked for her wallet, and flooed back to the Ministry, which she exited to Muggle London. As much as she loved the Wizarding World, Muggle London had the best cafes, and she could actually get some coffee there, which she felt was much needed at the moment.

She had not felt the eyes upon her as she left.

::

Lunch had taken her longer than it usually did when she went out on her own, but it was nothing she hadn't expected, as her head was busy already categorising what she'd just heard about #907, even though it was not much. It got her more curious by the minute. The prisoners in their cell block were always a mystery to her, like a puzzle she wanted to solve; why were they there, what kind of people were they—surely there had to be something wrong with you to commit horrible crimes?

Yet over the year she'd been working down in 12 now, she'd realised this wasn't the case. There were those like Bellatrix Lestrange, who just enjoyed inflicting pain; people with a serious mental problem (she still wasn't sure what to think of them); people who'd done it in momentum; even, every now and then, the one who'd hurt someone else in self-defense. (Those were the people she usually managed to get back upstairs. For while Hermione was nothing like an attorney, and could not relieve those people from their sentence in general, she could save them from the prison's darkest places if her arguing and evidence were enough.)

Now, of course, she was intent on figuring out what kind of person #907 was to be so unknown, yet so feared. Was it, in fact, more the case that the unknown was feared? Or was there a third variable that kept him unknown, and feared? She was by no means afraid herself, she'd heard stories much worse than a bit of rumours going around that were obviously meant to scare people. Hell, she'd looked horror in the face not three years ago, and she was still standing!

She took the escalator down—as high as the Azkaban building was, there was an entire storey underground, inside the rock the prison stood on. How on earth they'd managed to build it that way, she had never bothered to find out, afraid that she wouldn't dare to go back down again. The elevator rattled, as every single one of them in official buildings seemed to do, and stopped and opened with a loud _clang_.

It was like the cliché films, in which one dazedly looks up and sees something or someone that they have been looking for or which shocks them immensely. Yet this was not a film, and that must have been #907 being transported to his new cell. The guards seemed to be cowering, wanting nothing more than to get away from him, yet he himself walked morosely on, silently, without any verbal or physical protests. He did not, however, as so many others often did, walk bowed and slowly, as if he'd come to terms with his fate yet was afraid and reluctant for it. This man walked like one who simply did not care. She knew he could not see, but often the ones who were led downstairs were trying to, anyway. He did not.

She realised he walked like a man who was already dead.

She could not follow, for her office was the other way, but she stared after them until they were gone—cell 46, she knew, and she was already dreading doing her rounds that afternoon. It was one thing to hear of people, but a whole different thing to actually see them, even though she had not yet seen his face. And suddenly there was a spark of—not really fear, dread, maybe, but very unpleasant indeed.

Most probably because all she knew about him, was there was nothing to know about him. (She would have to pry some more details out of Carter, she decided right then and there, for there had to be more to it.)

Suddenly the Monday was no longer so dull, and the week was looking a lot more promising.


	2. Prisoner 907

**A/N: First off, thank you to those who tracked/favourited! **

** Bethan: Thanks you! I sort of forgot about the summary thing though, I used to write for another fandom where the characters did not yet have such a set history together so I tend to forget about it. I made up for it in this chapter though! As for how long it's been since the war, it's sort of implied in this sentence: "_Hell, she'd looked horror in the face not three years ago, and she was still standing!_" (But I do realise it isn't too clear.)**

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Tuesday brought a very distraught Night Watch, and even more paperwork than Monday, leaving Hermione no way to find out why (other than a particular number she knew of) the Watch had been so stressed. Hadn't the Watches seen the worst right after the war? The worst, who did no longer even seem human—the worst, Bellatrix Lestrange?

Hermione herself had been too busy for such things, but everything that she had had to work on in the aftermath had taken a toll on her. Almost three years of working and not doing anything actually for herself, and herself alone, was hard, not just on her, but everyone involved.

Sometimes she cursed herself for not going through Auror training with Harry and Ron, but to opt for what, in her position at the time, might have been the worst job possible.

Dementor's Queue.

But sometimes she realised that this was the first thing in a long time, the first time since Voldemort had returned, that she'd actually done for herself, without regarding anyone else's opinion, and she realised it had been the best choice she'd made in years. She was happy with it even though it had been the last straw to end her and Ron's relationship of three years—there'd been relatively little chemistry anyway, and with both of them working such different jobs on different times, there was no possibility of working out the relationship; they barely saw each other anymore, and when they did, either or both of them would be tired.

She missed Ron. Even though there was a lack of chemistry before they broke up, she still enjoyed spending time with him. She missed Harry, as well; even Ginny, whom she had never been as close to as to the boys. And sometimes, she missed the old life they connected her to, where they were the idiots that never listened to her and the ones who managed to loosen her up a bit.

She shook her head and bent over her paperwork once more. Never had she particularly disliked it—rather the opposite—but now, it meant she only had to wait longer to see #907. When the busiest times faded away a bit, she'd always do some rounds every evening before she went home; yet this was not such a period of time. It would forever be a mystery to Hermione why they couldn't just spread the work over the course of those months, but she'd just have to put up with it.

How she hated it now.

No one spoke of #907 anymore, at least not outright. She caught the dark looks the others sent each other, and the silent conversations that seemed to pass between them and that could have one subject only. Everyone except her seemed to know of him, even though they didn't know anything about him, and it annoyed her to no end. She was, after all, not particularly used to not knowing something. She hated it.

"Carter."

He looked up, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She knew he'd expected her to ask him more, and that this was the reason he'd acted jumpy around her all day. She also knew he most certainly did not want to answer her questions, but he had to understand she couldn't be the only one in their department that didn't know anything—not even the biggest rumours—about the apparently most notorious prisoner in their block.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," she commented lightly, gesturing for him to sit down. "Listen—I suppose you already know what I want to talk about, so it won't come as a surprise. But could you please…"

To her surprise, he nodded before she'd even finished her speech. "I get it." He averted his eyes. "It's my own fault, isn't it, for bringing it up in the first place."

She could not deny that, so she kept her silence.

"Okay." He tried to relax in the chair, but failed miserably. "So—So what do you want to know, exactly?"

"Everything." She folded her hands. "Anything. Just start with whatever comes up to you first." It didn't seem like a very good idea to push him any more than she already had.

Carter frowned. "The point is, there is no good point to begin with. I can't even remember how I first heard of him… It feels like he's been in Azkaban since forever, and everyone has just forgotten that he once had a life outside of the prison." His frown deepened at that, as if he hadn't considered it himself until this very moment. "That's the problem with society, isn't it? That's what we forget. That they're all humans." Then, he shuddered, and his face twisted into a scowl. "Still, it's like #907 is trying to do anything to make anyone forget that he is one."

Her thoughts flashed briefly in a direction that she immediately discarded again.

"Anyway—what was I saying? Right, it's like he's always been here. With the result that he seems like…" He trailed off, apparently now sure what exactly the prisoner seemed like. "It doesn't help that no one can find any information on him, either, of course."

"But what about the file?" Hermione butted in.

He raised an eyebrow. "Have _you_ seen it yet?"

"Fine. Point taken. What else?"

"What else? What _else_." He shook his head. "I think we'd better talk after you've seen him, Granger. It would make it a lot easier… Although I don't think you'd feel the need to anymore."

Well, that hadn't taken her anywhere. "One thing, though," she said hurriedly as Carter stood up, ready to leave her office. "What exactly is it about him that scares everyone so much?"

He sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid you'll have to see that for yourself. It's not—nothing in particular. He just… sends bad signals. It's not something to put your finger on, it's something you feel." With that, he walked out, leaving her feeling more sceptical than ever. Hermione had never been the girl to go with things she 'just felt', but exactly the one to want to pinpoint every single detail that bothered her.

It seemed she was up for quite a strange puzzle this time.

::

It wasn't before Friday that she first got the chance to know—well, at least something—and by then she wasn't so sure whether to be bursting with nerves, scared, or somewhat happy for the opportunity. She decided all of them would do.

The nerves settled deeper into her stomach as she waited for her other co-worker, Chris Bones (indeed distantly related to Susan, her former classmate), who also worked on weekdays only. She had to refrain herself from jumping from foot to foot, eager and anxious to get going. It was, however, the rule that they should not go alone, and Hermione had always been quite the stickler for rules. Besides, she could get killed if something went wrong—or lose her job.

Chris seemed the calm itself when he arrived, and it eased the nerves somewhat. Everything was probably completely exaggerated, in any case, as it always was with stories like this. True stories never were that interesting, and therefore needed the added details.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As always. You?"

"I'm never not ready," Chris answered, winking. She ignored that. Chris did not catch her interest in the slightest, and he knew that.

They set off.

She'd been in the block quite some times, logically following her job description, and most things seemed just as they always did. Most of the cells were occupied by people sitting in a corner as if trying to disappear into it, muttering incoherently to themselves, often probably a result of the Dementor that always preceded them. There were no longer Dementors stationed outside the cells each day, all day; but they needed their supply of human happiness. It was the one thing Hermione could not think of in regards to her job, which seemed strange as she was always going through files and reading the most horrible crimes.

She was used to it all, the cowering prisoners, and the quiet ones, she'd seen it every so often now. There were the worse cases—those who clawed at their own skins, trying to rip it open; or those with the terrifying screams. It had never stopped unnerving her, but at the same time, it was no longer surprising when it happened, and it did not scare her.

In any case, she had to do her best keeping her head on the job, to not look forward to the cell at the very end of the row. It was nervous anticipation, and she wasn't sure what to think of it.

It seemed to be getting colder with every step towards the end, although that might just be imagination. It probably was, she told herself. Nothing was wrong. The only thing different from usual, were the stories.

She swallowed.

Forty-six.

He was not muttering, nor screaming, and he was not clawing at himself. As it was, he didn't appear to be doing anything at all, not even breathing. He was standing in the back of the cell, facing the wall. Rigid, proud, even. She'd recognise it anywhere.

There was no way she could be afraid of him. She crossed her arms; staring defiantly at the back of his head as if he had eyes there. Still, the tension did not entirely leave her, and she wondered why. Maybe the stories had had their impact, or maybe it was—she didn't know, history maybe. All she knew was this would be quite the interesting puzzle.

"What are you doing here?"

He still did not move, or show any sign of recognising her voice. She didn't let it bother her too much. If anything, she was annoyed how the stories had gotten to her, and even more so at the extreme anti-climax they seemed to end in.

She raised an eyebrow at Chris, who mirrored this, as if to say, 'I didn't say anything'. As this was true, she returned her attention to the man inside the cell, who still hadn't moved an inch. The only thing indicating he was alive was the fact that he was standing up, for not even his shoulders seemed to move the tiniest of bits by his breathing. That (and that alone), was unnerving.

"Is he always like that?" she asked Chris, who shrugged.

"I haven't seen him in any other place than there since he's arrived. He's like a living statue—he doesn't appear to be drinking, or eating, or breathing for that matter—" That much she had noticed, "—and he doesn't respond to anything or anyone."

Hermione made a mental note of that, to think about later, when she was in her own quiet home. She knew she needed the time to fully comprehend this, and maybe then, she would realise that this was not an uninteresting development from the stories at all—rather, the exact opposite. For the fact remained that no one, not even herself, knew why he was here, of all places. Come to think of it—she couldn't remember his trial at all, although she was fairly sure it would have been all over the papers. That was what the Daily Prophet liked to do best, after all: to show that the Ministry did something that was deemed right by most of the population.

However, she was fairly sure that, would all the facts surface, it would not turn out to be so right. (Never mind that this probably wouldn't be seen that way by most people: she wasn't most people, and she had learnt, over time, to deal with facts, and facts only, and to keep any personal feelings aside in cases that involved the law, and breaking it.)

And then she realised that this might just be the most interesting case she'd ever had at hands. She realised that this was exactly the reason that she'd picked this job, out of everything. Hadn't she always said she wanted to make a change in the world? Wasn't that what she was doing all the time? She researched, she communicated, she relieved people from the worst fate the Wizarding World had to offer—the Dementor's Kiss—because despite some things that they might have done wrong, these were fates they did not deserve. And there was no way she would let her prejudice get in the way this time: If anything, it strengthened her resolve to find out exactly what was going on here.

She rubbed her temples, thinking of the amount of work that had to be done even without all this, and suddenly longed for her bed.

"Let's go," she murmured to Chris, who shot her a weird look, but then nodded. He had already turned away to leave, satisfied that there would be no peculiar things happening for now, but Hermione stayed in place for a little while longer. "You'll see me around… Draco."

The muscles around his shoulders tensed a little. It satisfied her immensely. Yes… Interesting indeed.

She turned on her heels and hurried after Chris.

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**A/N: I decided not to go for a long search of the identity of the prisoner, as this is after all a Dramione fic, and came to me as fairly obvious. (Therefore it is not the point of the fic and I'm afraid I'd screw up that way.)**

**Opinions are lovely.**


	3. Rumours and whispers

**This was supposed to be up yesterday, and then I come up with a chapter like this - I'm so sorry. Either way, I want to thank anyone who's reviewed/followed! **

**To the anon that said it took to long to find out it was Draco, and anyone else who might think so: Yes, to us, it wasn't a surprise - but it was a great surprise to Hermione, who had not expected such a thing at all.**

**Going into the rumours this week! Hope it's enjoyable.**

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_Rumour has it he's killed old Albus Dumbledore, six years ago._

She was sure he hadn't. Harry had been there, had exclaimed it had been Snape, and she believed him. Yet he did have a role in all of it, and not a small one at that—what that made him, she wasn't quite sure of. She decided not to think about it too much, at least not now.

_Rumour has it he was You-Know-Who's right hand._

Was he? After all the disgrace his family had gone through? After his father losing the prophecy and landing in Azkaban, and himself failing to kill Voldemort? She highly doubted it. Still, she knew better than to completely exclude the possibility. Who knew? Sometimes it were the most illogical suggestions that were the best.

_Rumour has it he was planning on becoming a new Dark Lord._

But this _could_ be excluded, couldn't it? This was above illogical, this was completely ridiculous. She thought of the little spoiled brat she'd met in her first year at Hogwarts, and the change she'd noticed in him during the sixth year and the few times she'd seen him during the war. He'd seemed so reluctant to do anything, almost scared. And that was supposed to become a new Dark Lord? She shook her head. He'd have to have played it very smartly if that was the case—because even if pretending to be scared and thereby undermining Voldemort's plans would have actually been the plan to destroy the Dark Lord (which she very much doubted, as only this could never have ended the man), why would anyone want to follow a new Dark Lord who didn't seem capable of doing anything remotely cruel? That didn't make any sense…

Only _rumour had it _that it had been Draco Malfoy who was the reason of Lucius Malfoy's eventual death, halfway during the war. Hermione hadn't heard of it until after the final battle, in which Narcissa Malfoy had lied to Voldemort about Harry so she could go back to the castle and search for the only member of her family left—her son. Of course, you didn't have to be a genius to know that people were saying it was all part of a plan. What that plan was supposed to be, however, no one seemed to know, only that it was one that conveyed previously mentioned rumours.

So many rumours, each more unconvincing (to her) than the other. She could confirm them for herself in an instant; the file had been lying on her desk for two hours now, but somehow she was reluctant to open it. What exactly she was afraid of, she couldn't say.

"Open it," she whispered to herself. "It's not that hard. You have the answers to all those questions right in front of you." But speaking to herself had never worked before, and it did not now.

And all of a sudden her body seemed to make a decision her mind had not yet reached, but instead of flipping open the file and starting to unfazed the mystery that was #907, she stood up and for the first time in her life did something out of bounds without a real purpose.

She entered block 12.

Hermione had never before been here on her own. It seemed all a lot colder now, and darker. She told herself she wasn't afraid. Do not look sideways into the cells. Keep in the middle of the corridor so they can't suddenly grab you. She'd heard a story about that once, someone who'd gone in alone as well, who'd been walking too closely to the cells. He'd been grabbed, pulled against the bars, and almost choked to death. (Whether this was true or just a story to scare her off, she would probably never know.)

No one grabbed her, however, even though she did see hands clutching the bars or the gleam of evil eyes from the corner of her eyes.

And then there it was, cell 46, and all of a sudden she had no idea why she'd come here. She stared at Malfoy's rigid back, still—or again—in the same place he had been the last time she'd seen him. She wondered what was on the wall that was so interesting to him. Projections of his thoughts, perhaps. She wondered what was happening inside his head.

"Good morning, Granger."

Hermione stared at the back of his head as if she was expecting two extra eyes to show. They didn't. She knew better than to ask how he knew it was her, though. When you worked down here, all questions you asked had to do with the convicted, and the reasons they were there.

'_He doesn't respond to anyone'_, she heard Chris saying in her head.

"Good morning. How was your weekend?"

He didn't rise to the bait. To his credit, he didn't stay silent, either. "Oh, you know. I could add a few more x's to my count. _Quite_ eventful."

She frowned, trying to figure out what he meant with that. "How many are there?"

He didn't answer. She had the feeling he was smirking, though she couldn't see. It was as if he wanted to taunt her. _Yes, you would want to know that, wouldn't you? _And she did. "Are you counting the days, Malfoy?" her voice suddenly came. She tried to imagine what he did with those days. Maybe he was actually doing the very same thing as all the others, only they crawled back physically as well as mentally, and he was keeping it all in his head. _Or maybe he was brooding._

She needed to stop thinking. And she needed him to talk to her. "Till where will you count?"

Silence. She took it as a sign for her to have to figure it out herself. "Well, thank you for this… _insightful_ conversation. I'll leave you now. I do believe you have… better things to do with your days."

Again that feeling, that idea that he was laughing at her, silently, secretly. As if he knew something that she didn't. Suddenly she understood why people felt so uncomfortable around him. In a way, he gave one the feeling that they were the prisoner, not him. Even behind bars, he had an air of being above everyone else. In some way, it was quite admirable. After all, all he could do actually was counting the days until he'd receive the Dementor's Kiss.

Hermione shuddered and tried not to think about it. Her mind effortlessly envisioned everything that she came up with, and even though this was something that just happened down here from time to time, she couldn't stand the vision.

She waited for a moment until she stepped away, half-hoping for him to say something, but he didn't. It was all a bit disappointing to her, yet at the same time bloody infuriating. She wanted to _know_, but at the same time she hadn't wanted to open the file yet, and for a long moment she wondered why. But the answer had been there all the time, even before she'd received the pile of paper. _Because it was probably full of lies_.

Either way, she knew her duties, and she knew the lies, especially, were important. She could figure out whether he was convicted for things that had actually happened, or not. She would fight for the knowledge as to why he hadn't fought his sentence more. She needed to understand, if this was all the case, simply _why_.

One question kept swirling through her head though: if she found out things were wrong… would she act on it?

Quietly, she went back to her office, all the while checking her way so she would encounter no co-workers who would ask difficult questions as to where she'd come from. It was time to stop being such an idiot and just read the damned file; she wouldn't get a useful word out of him, anyway, and the content should've been known to them two weeks ago.

She did meet Carter, though, who was entering the office right before her. He looked at her strangely, but for once in his life did not say anything, and she was grateful for it. But something was nagging her mind, and despite all the bullshit he exclaimed, Carter was the only one who would answer her questions about #907—she couldn't bear thinking about him as Draco Malfoy—in a way that he at least thought to be the truth.

"Say, James…"

He looked up, cocking an eyebrow, which told her he already knew what she was going to ask about. Well, she couldn't blame him, anyway.

"Well, you're in on all the… well, _gossip_, aren't you?"

He smirked. "Just get to the point, Granger. I've seen that file lying on your desk, and I'm pretty sure I know where you've just come from… What is it you want to know? If you'll believe me, anyway."

She did have quite the reputation of being sceptical; but then, she was the one mostly spitting through all those files, and it did require exactly that, as she was supposed to see the things that didn't quite fit. (She was sure someone went through the files after her as well, but that was during the weekend and she barely got to meet the employees who worked only then.)

As she opened her mouth to question him, however, she already had an idea of what his far-fetched answer was going to be; yet she wanted to try anyway. Maybe he'd say something sensible for once. "He's always in the same spot in his cell, isn't he?" she asked, slowly. "Was he like that when he was upstairs? Do you know why?"

"He's been like that ever since he arrived here, so I've heard," Carter whispered conspiratorially. "You want to know why, Granger? You want to know what they say?" He flashed her curious face a smirk and leaned further in. "It is said… _he has no face_."

He sat back in his chair, looking at her expectantly. He should've foreseen what happened next

Hermione laughed. Very loudly, at that. She couldn't help it. "So, what," she started, sniffing with laughter. "He just has a blank spot where his face should've been?"

But Carter, very unlike himself, seemed the very opposite of offended—his smirk grew, and his eyes shone in a way that would've made the Draco Malfoy she'd known in school fairly jealous. "Oh, no," he said quietly. "If only it were that."

And before she could even try to get an explanation out of him, he'd left the room, leaving his words hanging in the air with the desired effect:

She'd stopped laughing.

::

Draco was fuming inside. Of all people, Hermione Granger. Stupid, nosy bitch. He wondered if all that he'd done had been that bad, for karma to hate him so much. But she would regret it; she would be sorry to have ever chosen this profession, and even more to be the one to try and get him to do what no one else had successfully managed so far—speak.

Maybe if he stared at the wall long enough, his eyes would burn a hole in it. Only it would be no use, for he was underground anyway, and suffocating to death didn't really suit him.

So instead, he closed his eyes, and let the small smile creep back onto his face.

In his head, Draco Malfoy held lengthy conversations. People called it madness, but at least he wasn't clawing his own eyes out. He spoke of the past, and dreamt of things that seemed impossible, and sometimes he would forget that it was all not real.

"1281," he whispered into nothingness, and his body tensed.

He was Draco Malfoy, he was 22 years old, and if anything, he was not mad.

* * *

**So... what do you think is true?**


	4. Monster

**Yes, this took me long - too long, probably. Life and work caught up with me.**

**Either way. I'm making a bit of a jump in time because of reasons, and I'm sorry if I made it a bit rushed. Also, I haven't looked this over because I'm really tired and I have to work tomorrow again, so please forgive me if there seem to be any mistakes.**

**Done with making excuses. On with my shot at a chapter.**

**(Also, did I mention I really appreciate the follows/reviews? Thank you!)**

* * *

She was tired. She had a headache. And she wanted to be left alone. Rubbing her temples, she entered her flat, dropped her bag, and let herself fall down onto the couch.

Things had been horrible these last two weeks, in that sense that nothing at all had changed. No interactions with Malfoy. No big secrets revealed (or confirmed, for that matter).

It was frustrating.

As much as she wanted to close her eyes and sleep, however, she was also looking forward to tonight's dinner. Ron had invited them—Ginny, Harry, and her—to come over to his place and have him cook for them. (Despite common expectations, Ronald Weasley was actually quite a decent cook, if only he had the time for it.) With Ron's job as an Auror and Ginny's Quidditch training, meeting up with the four of them didn't happen all too often. Funnily enough, it were only she and Harry who had set working hours.

Against all expectations, even those of himself, Harry hadn't gone through with his ambitions to become an Auror. He'd told them he'd had enough action for a lifetime, and although Ron had been disappointed, no one had failed to understand his reasons. Harry had always yearned for a quiet life, and after everything that had happened, he'd finally been given the chance to lead one.

He claimed he didn't miss the action, but Hermione could read faces better than anyone, and he had been her best friend for so long. Yet for some reason, she'd never asked.

She yawned and pushed herself up from the couch to take a good long shower and change into a more appropriate outfit before she had to leave.

She entered the apartment through the floo—as much as she hated the feeling of imposing herself on someone, they had agreed that between the four of them, it wouldn't be too much of a problem. (That is, of course, if it was a planned meeting or an emergency, for who knew what one would be barging into.)

"Hello?"

"Hermione!" Ron stuck his head around the corner and grinned at her. "Good to see you."

Someone said something from the kitchen, in a girl's voice. Hermione wondered if it were Ginny, but then there was a _whoosh_ behind her and Ginny stepped into the room, followed by Harry. "Ron, who's that?"

His ears went a fiery red when he stepped out of the doorframe and into the living room. "Erm… Hermione, Ginny, Harry… I'd like you to meet someone."

Hermione knew who the girl was who came out of the kitchen. She'd seen her last not three years before, in Azkaban. Pansy Parkinson had served two months before she got out on parole. She hadn't been particularly active in the war, nor after it; all Hermione could really remember of the girl was her being a snarky bitch in school.

She didn't look too snarky now. She mostly looked nervous. Hermione couldn't blame her.

"Erm… Hi."

Everyone just stared. It just came as such a surprise, they'd never seen this coming. But then Hermione remember who she was, and who Pansy was, and how much worse she'd seen in Azkaban, and she smiled. "Hi, Pansy. You look great."

She smiled tentatively. "Thanks. You too."

"So," Ron said, looking torn between relief and nervousness. "You could all just… you know, sit down… I'll get us all something to drink."

They did, and Harry and Ginny were still quiet and seemingly in shock. Hermione remembered a time in which Pansy had been caught up in the middle of the war and ready to hand Harry over to Voldemort and wondered if her friends could forgive her for that.

"I'm sorry, you know," the girl suddenly said to Harry. "I never meant to—I mean, looking back at it…" She shook her head. "I was scared, I'd seen what—what would happen… It didn't even come up to me that if he won, it would always be like that, not until later…" She was staring intently at her shoes, but looked up again when she told him again that she was sorry.

Hermione believed her. Harry nodded. It probably wouldn't get any better than that right then.

Ron entered the room with five butterbeer soaring in front of him and smiled weakly. "I'm sorry to impose this news on you like this, but I didn't know how to—" He cut himself off by shaking his head and shrugging, set the butterbeer on the table, and went to sit next to Pansy.

"So, Pansy," Hermione began when she realised no one was going to start talking. "How've you been since—you know. What have you been doing the past years?"

"I started with helping my mum out with her new boutique, you know, in Hogsmeade." She shrugged. "No one really wants to employ someone who's been convicted to Azkaban, even for the short time I was in, and I reckoned I had to do _something_. Turned out I actually quite liked doing it." She smiled. "I now help designing robes and dresses. It's quite fun."

"I can imagine you doing that."

She looked up to see Ron smiling at her and smiled back at him. She'd always imagined moving on would hurt, but funnily enough, it didn't. She moved her vision towards Harry and Ginny and noticed them talking quietly to each other, yet she couldn't quite figure out their expressions. Probably still figuring out what they thought of Pansy being there.

It was one of the side-effects of working in the worst section of Azkaban that Hermione could be so forgiving. She wondered how long it would take Harry to come around. He hadn't fought Voldemort to keep up with all the hate, but it would be a shock, especially to him. All in all, it was mostly her who spoke to Pansy that evening, in the hope she wouldn't feel too left out. Pansy had once more tried to explain what little she had had to do with the war. Apparently she was afraid she wouldn't be accepted by Ron's friends because she'd stood on the wrong side, and the one thing she regretted most of all. Hermione told her not to worry about it, least of all with her. It didn't really seem to matter anymore.

Dinner wasn't the lively affair it usually was, but it couldn't be called even near disastrous either. At least there were no arguments and Ron's face sunk more and more into relaxation.

"How did you meet, anyway?"

Maybe she shouldn't have said that—for some reason, her friend went bright red like only he could. "I…"

"…was shopping," Pansy finished for him, as if that explained it all. "We bumped into each other and he asked if I wanted to grab a drink, stumbling over his own words and all. Turned out he didn't even recognise me."

"You do look a lot better than you did at school."

"Yes, well, you too, or I would've never said yes."

He scowled. She grinned. They fit.

"Hermione! Before you go—could I have a word with you? In private?"

She raised her eyebrows, but nodded. "Sure," she said, following Pansy into the kitchen.

"You still work in… in Azkaban, right?" Pansy shot another look at the doorframe, as if to make sure there was really no one lurking outside.

Hermione nodded again, her gut tying knots. She had a feeling she knew what direction this was going, and she wasn't quite sure if she liked it.

"I want to ask you something… It'd be okay if you declined, I mean you barely know me and—I don't know if you'd even bother but… I know Draco—Malfoy—is still in there. You have to get him out of there, Hermione."

"What?" She blinked a few times. "He's in for the Kiss, Pansy; I'll never manage to get him out even if there's proof he's been a saint."

"But you can change his sentence," she whispered. "He doesn't deserve this, you know. I'm not saying he _has_ been a saint, but… Just look into it, please? I've heard so many things these last years and it just… it doesn't…. He's not a monster."

::

"Ah, good day, Granger."

It wasn't the first time she wondered whether he had footprints dyed on the floor so he could stand on the exact same place every time.

"I've spoken to Pansy, you know." _You know, your friend from Hogwarts,_ she wanted to add, but there was no reason to and therefore she didn't. Godric knew how long it had been since all of those petty arguments had taken place, and better (or worse) yet; how he'd respond to her reminding him of it. Maybe he would actually respond at all.

"Did you, now?" His voice held no emotion whatsoever. She asked herself for the billionth time why she was even trying. (After all, she didn't really _have_ to. There was no reason for her not to leave him there to await his fate—except the equity she'd been striving so hard to achieve in the world.)

"She says you're not a monster." Hermione crossed her arms even though she knew he couldn't see this, and waited for him to break the deafening silence that followed. When he didn't, she coughed. "I find this hard to believe with all the stories going round."

"Hmm." She was quite boring him. He was quite sure nothing she said to him could shock, bother, or even interest him in the slightest. But then… of course, it _could_ happen the other way round. She wasn't afraid of the act he was pulling, and if he were to get his soul sucked out in a while—well, he could allow himself some last-minute fun, right?

Granger ploughed on, unaware of his change of thoughts. "You can tell me, you know. No one else is around to hear you… No one who will remember it later, anyway." She wondered briefly where this came from, but couldn't dwell on it too long. At least not now. "So tell me, Malfoy. How aren't you?"

"Yes, don't you wonder?" He smirked, she could hear it in his voice. "But I'm afraid I cannot tell, Granger. Haven't you heard? I _am_ a monster."

She had already opened her mouth to retort when he started moving. For a moment, she thought she could hear his bones creaking as if he were made of metal that had started rusting. That moment, however, soon ended when she was staring into the face of a man who was rumoured to be faceless and it was all she could do not to let the words that were stuck in her throat turn into a scream.


	5. Coward

**Sooo this has been, what, two months? I would say I'm sorry but suddenly there were things to do, work and fun stuff and moving out and back to school and besides that, not having any inspiration whatsoever. So I'm providing you with a short chapter which is a filler at that because this one is needed in here, and I hope it will not take this long again. Sorry.**

"_What's it like? Being a coward?"_

"_Harder than you'd expect, really." A smile played around his lips and he knew how unsettling it must be for the other. "Although you should know, wouldn't you?"_

_The man stared at him, long and hard, but didn't respond except for the anger in his gaze._

"_Yees, I thought so. It takes a lot of anger to be a coward, doesn't it?" He smirked. "Oh, I know you a lot better than you think, Weasley."_

Her footsteps—for he could tell by the sound of them that it was her—were coming closer as she came to inspect them all for her morning rounds; or so he thought, for there windows were hardly useful below ground level. But this had been happening for a while now; her showing up when she was supposed to, but never speaking, not ever uttering a word. He hated it. He hated her.

Maybe he'd hoped she'd be different. Scratch that, obviously he'd hoped so. He'd already been calculating his next step in his head, one that he didn't know where it'd lead, but he'd been willing to try.

He'd try it anyway.

"I knew you'd be scared." She'd reached number 46 and stopped dead in her tracks when he spoke. "I thought you were so brave, Granger, but in the end you weren't any more than everyone else."

He could hear her brains working from a distance. She was contemplating her options; answer, or ignore again. Hermione Granger had never been one to ignore, though, and indeed she didn't. "Excuse me?"

"That's not the most intelligent comeback I've ever heard you have, is it?" He shook his head, smiling. "You know I'm right though, don't you? You've looked into the face of monsters before but they never ceased to scare you."

She didn't reply to that because she knew he was right. Because she still, sometimes, when she was alone and the nights were especially dark, dreamt of monsters and there would be no one to save her. But he didn't need to know that.

"You're pathetic, you know that, Granger?"

She spluttered. How dare he—

"You can't even look a dying man in the face."

And it were not so much the words that did it, as the tone of his voice. For where he had always been indifferent, she did now notice the crack halfway and thoughts of fear and empty abysses filled her head, and it was right then that she decided something.

"At least tell me something." Her voice was thick—with nerves or pity, she could not say. "Tell me why you didn't fight your sentence. Tell me why you let them convict you for things you didn't do."

He turned around again, but she was prepared this time and even though it still came as a shock, she did not back away. His left eye was burning into hers as if he were trying to figure her out, but didn't manage to do so. His right eye did nothing and probably never would again. She ignored the nasty feeling it imposed on her and continued staring at him, not planning on leaving before he provided her with a satisfying answer.

The answer came in his shortly closing his eyes, opening his mouth but not being able to find the words. She knew. She'd seen it before in people who had resigned themselves to their fate and he was no different, not special at all.

"Guilt," she whispered, the one word saying it all. "What for, Draco?"

He stepped forward and gripped the bars through which he could see her, in a manner as if he were ready to attack her. She wasn't afraid. She felt eerily calm.

"Do you know," his voice raspy, "what it's like to live with the consequences of your actions? What if those actions imply that people have died, because of you, what you have done? I can tell you don't, none of you people do. You know why I don't mind my fate? Because it will make me forget it. Stay away from me, Granger." His eyes widened and he moved his arms in a manner as if he wanted to rattle the bars, which was impossible. "Stay the _fuck_ away from me!"

She did step back now, because he looked somewhat mad in this way. "You're taking the easy way out."

"You don't know what you're talking about," a harsh whisper. "It's not easy to accept you will end up like a sponge being sucked out of water. It's _not_."

"Then don't."

He snorted. "It's not as if I have much of a choice, do I?"

But that wasn't true. She had grown up in the conviction that there always was a choice, even if it seemed like there wasn't. Even in this situation; this she knew, because she had made a difference before. And she could do so now.

The man was glaring at her with a hate she hoped wasn't directed straight at her. This man who had lost half his face in the war, burned away so badly magic hadn't been able to heal it. It made his right eye look scarily out of proportion, as if it were placed in no more than a skull, but a red and crumpled one. She thought of how he'd looked before and if there was anything to change his appearance, and if he would even care. This, however, all was the least she would be worrying about.

"I can give you a choice."

It was silent for a while.

"Why would you? I'm a coward, Granger, I deserve no more than this. And what choice would you have me make? Get the Kiss, or stay in here for life? Because honestly, I know what I'd prefer. I don't like being aware of this hellhole for another Merlin knows how many years."

She understood that. She had been up there before, the rows of cells where people sat out their life sentences. It was the most awful place she had ever been, and she worked down here.

"I wasn't talking about that. Not a life sentence." She took a deep breath and gathered the courage to say what she was about to, to speak of the only easier way out than he had now. "I meant death."

He stared at her, and a slow smile crept on his face. "I think we have a deal."


End file.
